Page 20 of Accidental Vampire

I stripped off the bespoke slacks that Aurora had chosen for me. What, yesterday? The day before? They didn’t much resemble pants now. I chucked them out the steel door to join my belt, shoes and the tattered remains of her clothes.

I reached down and fingered a scrap of her skirt lining. Red satin. A daring choice for a pencil skirt. Probably made in the 40s. It served its mistresses well across the decades.

I gathered up a fresh stack of towels and the green shake Omar had left. Vampires didn’t need food, blood was complete nutrition. Mortal blood anyway. You could only survive so long on vampire blood. But when stressed, the extra iron and Vitamin K perked you up right quick. I snagged a change of clothes too, jeans and a navy t-shirt. My boots would be the only thing to survive this adventure. So long as she didn’t turn her fangs to the shoe leather. I left the shoes outside the cell. Padding around on bare feet wouldn’t wake her.

I hosed down the room. It was conveniently sloped to a drain in the corner. The radiant heat in the floor would have it dried soon enough. The hose and the shower head could retract into the wall. Genius bit of design there. Nothing but the best in a Venier family safe houses.

I reached up, adjusted the shower head so it would fall directly on me, right as rain. I let the water hit my face first, closing my eyes and letting everything wash away, her blood, mine, other things the body expels when dying and being made new. I hadn’t bothered to wait for it to warm. There must be some furnace here, the water hit scalding far too fast. I reached out a hand to bring the temp down and hit... her.

She was in front of me, those eyes the color of brass and mahogany. She looked pathetic, needy, scared, unconcerned with the water falling on her. I peeled a lock of hair from her forehead, tucked it behind an ear. The scrubs were plastered to her. I cupped her face as it transformed. Heat flared in her eyes and thirst pulled her lips back into a smile that could stop your heart. She licked her lips and was on me.

Both legs wrapped around my waist, grinding. Little mews of frustration bubbled out of her as she tried to get at my neck.

This isn’t... She’ll regret this.

This is all instinct and blood, hunger, thirst. The body and brain confusing that with lust. This isn’t her wanting me.

She did not want me.

Unforgivable sin. I’ve already taken from her without permission. I took her. I took everything. I can’t take this.

I pressed her back to the wall and held her there with a forearm across her collar bones. She practically growled, her eyes lighting up like someone well practiced in mock force and capitulation games.

I can’t...

I left her for a second, fetching a blood bag from the other side of the room. A literal blink of an eye. Just about the only time in my cursed life I was happy for supernatural speed, wasn’t I? I strong-armed her again, holding her to the wall while fiddling with the blood bag. I pressed a palm flat to her cunt, not to excite but to ground her, hold her in place, focused on one point of contact. Her eyes fluttered shut and then her brows wrinkled when ecstasy didn’t ignite.

I rested my forehead against hers for a moment, begging that sense of calm and peace to catch me up like the first time I touched her. I found no calm, but a resolve of sorts. I fucked a lot of shit up. I would not fuck this up.

Confusing lust and thirst this early was disastrous. Not to mention bonds... God no. My stomach dropped at the thought.

I fumbled the blood bag to my mouth and bit a small hole into, enough for a few drops of mortal blood to bubble out. I held it to her mouth. She turned her head disgusted. I rubbed some on her lips and she gagged. I could force her, make her take it. Again.

I pinched her jaw to grab all her attention. I scored my lower lip with a fang, let the blood pool there, a rivulet dribbled down my chin. She was rapt, licked her lips. I let up on the pressure, giving her the space to move, to take my blood if she wanted it.

My blood was probably the only bit of me she’d ever want.

I let her only take a taste, a smear of blood across her lips and tongue, before pinning her to the wall again. I breathed deep and ignored the tantalizing grunts of protest and frustration. I held the blood bag right in front of her face till it consumed all of her flailing attention. She frowned.

Slowly, carefully, I bit into it, let some gush into my mouth, coat my tongue and my lips. She focused on my mouth. I let up, let her make the choice. Fuck, there was no choice it, it was all instinct. Hesitantly, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to mine. They came away bloody and gorgeous. Her tongue darted out to test and taste. Bagged blood wasn’t ambrosia, but it was potent like all mortal blood.

I bit the bag again, holding a swallow on my tongue, offering her my mouth. She took it, greedily this time, swirling her tongue over mine, not in passion, no, thirst.

Thirst, not lust.

I angled the bag between us and squeezed, blood gushed between our lips. I pinned her back against the wall again, held the bag up and she went for it with a snapping bite. Her emerging fangs weren’t quite sharp enough to cut the thick plastic.

She drank, hearty swallows, her eyes rolling back in her head from the power and satisfaction.

I pulled the bag away and dropped it to the floor, ignoring her protests. Too much mortal blood wouldn’t stay down. I watched her lick her lips for every last drop. Her eyes blinked, drowsy. I pulled her forward, under the shower spray, to wash away the remnants of her first proper drink. She didn’t register the water falling on her, just bobbed her head like a kitten fighting to stay awake.

I wanted to… I squeezed my eyes shut. I wanted to hold her in my arms, like Saint had held me. See her flash in delight when she woke to all her senses again. I wanted her to… want me. But no. That wasn’t possible.

Anger flashed through me as I eased her to the floor, unwanted memories throwing daggers at me. Hot and stinging. All that pain, the agony of my body doing things unholy, every cell remaking it self in this wicked preternatural process. Buffeted by Saint, his arms and his worthless sweet nothings in my ear about eternities together, outlasting the stars.

I paced this cell the gods forgot, fighting flashbacks to my own Making Day. The pain of it seemed to sit right on my skin. The physical pain, that is.

EIGHTEEN

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